


Birthday Blues

by stephanieebrown



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Nightwing (Comics), The Flash (Comics)
Genre: M/M, like me, this is short and gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10388040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanieebrown/pseuds/stephanieebrown
Summary: It’s Dick’s thirtieth birthday and if that doesn’t sound weird in his head he doesn’t know what will.





	

It’s Dick’s thirtieth birthday and if that doesn’t sound weird in his head he doesn’t know what will. Maybe hearing something like _‘Bruce’s 50 th’_ would be just as strange but Dick doesn’t even _want_ to start thinking about that and that’s only four years away. It’s not like he didn’t think that he would reach thirty (okay, so that’s a lie) but he just never thought about being this old. Well, not that thirty is old or anything (and Dick might just kill Damian for suggesting that or at least offer a light strangulation) but the word just sounds weird on his tongue. Dick is thirty and he’s been a hero since - he was taken in by Bruce, when he was nine. _Nine._ That’s, like, twenty one years.

 _Well done, Champ,_ Dick thinks, _you can count._

It’s a milestone year for some of the others too, Dick guesses. Tim turns twenty one  in July where, for one golden month, he’ll be the same age as Steph before she becomes twenty two and starts heralding the fact that she’s older than him for another eleven months.

Not to mention that Damian turns fourteen this year and thinking of the kid being a teenager is literally the scariest thing that has ever crossed Dick’s mind.

There’s cake at the small gathering at the manor that Alfred made and it has rainbow sprinkles on it. Dick’s been itching to try some since he arrived but he’s been barred by the butler until he eats something more substantial for lunch first. _Rude,_ Dick thinks, because he’s pretty sure _the dog_ , who is sitting under a dining chair as Damian feeds him bits of his slice, didn’t have to eat a _substantial lunch_ first.

Besides, it’s his own birthday.

And he’s _thirty. Fuck._

Dick feels a light shove as a shoulder nudges his own.

“Dick, dude, do you have, like, secret bat laser-beam powers I don’t know about ‘cause you’re gonna set that cake on fire if you keep looking at it like that.”

Dick rolls his eyes but spares a glance to Wally on his left who has probably been watching him glare at the cake for a while now.

“No secret bat laser-beams that you don’t know about, I swear,” Dick says, “but I’m not above developing some.”

Wally laughs before grabbing one of the small, delicately cut sandwiches from the platter on the coffee table in the blink of an eye.

“He’s got a point though,” Wally tells him around a mouthful of ham and cheese, gesturing at Alfred, “it’s not gonna do any harm to eat something real.”

Dick turns his cake-glare on Wally but he continues, unaffected.

“Like look, man,” he grabs another sandwich and showing it to Dick before slowly (for him anyway) taking a bite from it, “turkey! Who has turkey in March? Like I’m not complaining, there is literally every kind of sandwich filling here, I’m in heaven!”

“I can tell,” Dick laughs as he gives in and grabs a mini-sandwich for himself.

He takes a bite as Wally watches intently. Cucumber.

“You happy now?” he manages over the last bite.

“Mm, it’s better,” Wally allows, “eat like six more and I’ll let Alfred know that you’re allowed the cake.”

Dick frowns but grabs another sandwich. After this, Wally keeps handing more and more food to him, getting progressively faster with each throw of mini-sandwiches. Eventually, Wally’s arms become a blur and Dick, much to his annoyance and slight horror, is trying to balance over forty (why did Alfred make so many) snacks on his lap.

So Dick does the sensible thing.

And starts throwing them back.

It’s this back and forth war of mini-sandwiches which Dick is clearly loosing because, hello, Wally is a speedster and therefore has a high advantage over humble sandwich throwers like himself. It’s unfair, really. The two of them are kind of lost in their battle, Dick sure that he has egg-mayo sliding down one cheek and cranberry sauce splattered on his shirt, when the loud and distinctly _unimpressed_ clearing of a throat snaps them out of it.

Dropping their ammo abruptly, Dick and Wally turn to the sound and find the entire room staring at them in varying stages of annoyance (Bruce), shame (Alfred and Babs), disgust (Damian) and vague amusement (Tim, Cass, Duke, Steph). The only face missing is Jason’s and that’s because he would, and quote, _‘rather kiss Black Mask’s toes than subject myself to that social bullshit’._

 _Shame on him,_ Dick thinks, _missing out on quality mini-sandwiches and five-star entertainment._

“Dick,” Bruce says through gritted teeth as a piece of the egg-mayo falls onto his shoulder, “I was under the impression that this was your thirtieth birthday, not your third.”

Dick has the overwhelming urge to stick his tongue out but that would just hammer Bruce’s point even further home and Dick thinks he’s already dug his grave of immaturity deep enough. It’s tempting though.

“You’re totally right Bruce,” Dick answers in feigned surprise, “I should have told you to reprint all those invitations with a big fat three in the middle with a cartoon train blowing smoke spelling out ‘party’.”

 _Okay, so screw maturity then._ That works too.

Wally and Dick are left to clean up their mess of course, even if it is Dick’s birthday and even though he still hasn’t tried any of his own cake. They’re washing the platters in the kitchen sink when Wally prods Dick’s egg-mayo splattered shoulder and grins when Dick looks up at him.

“So,” he says conversationally, “how does the big three-oh feel?”

Dick groans but he’s smiling weakly.

“Terrible,” he complains, “I can feel the gray hairs growing already.”

Wally chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah? I still think you’d look cute with grey hair.”

Dick tries not to giggle like a school girl and instead nudges Wally with his hip.

“That’s way sappy, West,” he chastises, “tone it down or otherwise cherubs are gonna start manifesting.”

“Maybe that’s the idea, Grayson,” Wally pouts.

Dick laughs at the ridiculous face that Wally is pulling before it’s cut off by Wally pulling him in for a kiss.

It’s sweet and chaste and otherwise perfect but Dick pulls away and makes a face.

“Mm no,” he says to Wally’s confusion, “If you’re gonna do that, at least wash the pickle off your nose.”

Wally drags the kitchen cloth over his face, surprised by how much mess comes off.

“Later though, right?”

his face is hopeful.

“Later,” Dick agrees.

(he still wants his goddamn cake.)


End file.
